


Hound

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Animal Play, Dom/sub, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stay," she says against his pulse, her tone sharp, as though she's addressing new recruits in combat -- or one of the infantry's mastiffs. Gabranth tenses, feels himself baring his teeth instinctively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hound

"If I never hear another offhand comment about the habits of hungry dogs," Gabranth says, placing his helm on its stand, tugging free one of his gauntlets forcefully enough that the leather creaks, "I will not lose any sleep missing them."

Drace looks up from the history she's reading; she is the only other person in the Magisters' salon, else he would not speak so plainly. "You tire of your title, hound of Solidor?" she asks.

"You've --" Of course she's heard it; given the nature of Archades, people are probably more free with their mockery in his absence. He's certainly heard plenty of things said about the others. "It's demeaning," he says. "At least there is fear in it, when they talk of the iron maiden."

Amusement curls Drace's lip, not surprise -- he guessed right, and she has heard what is said of her, as well. She sets her book aside. "Did you never work with the mastiffs when you were among the regulars, your honor?" He is stripping off his pauldrons, his couters, and does not immediately reply. "There is danger enough there, and more loyalty than any instrument of torture ever paid her master."

Gabranth shrugs out of his cuirass, arranges it on the stand assigned to him -- next to the neatly ordered set of her armor; she is the next most junior Magister to him, though still she has had the position some years longer than he -- and says, "_Loyalty_. What good is loyalty to a --" And he stops himself, far too late.

"To a master who does not praise his hound, for a job well done?" Drace says. "Men do get bitten that way."

"You do not accuse me of treachery, I hope," Gabranth says. They have become close, more than he has with anyone else in this viper's nest of a city, but still sometimes he thinks he knows her not at all.

"I would not accuse anyone in such a roundabout, conniving way." When he looks up at her, she is smiling wryly. "The iron maiden is not so subtle."

"Forgive me," Gabranth says. He sets aside the last of his armor, and shrugs his shoulders simply to feel the lack of its weight. "I am seeing threats in shadows today, it seems."

"It is the Archadian way," Drace replies. She uncrosses her ankles, kicks away her footstool; her boots thud heavily against the floor, unladylike, a reminder of power. "Come here."

There is not room for two in her armchair, but Gabranth goes; there is something in the cool weight of her gaze that draws him, both challenging and soothing his restlessness at once. Something demanding. "Your honor?" he says, stopping a pace from her chair.

Drace parts her knees a little further, and looks from his face to the floor between them. "Sit," she says crisply.

His pride bristles even as his body obeys, going to his knees in front of her. She leans forward immediately, reaching out to catch him by the hair -- it's grown too long; he should have it trimmed -- and pull his head back. His breath catches in his throat, and he says her name -- "_Drace_ \--" almost a protest, and yet --

She bites beneath his jaw, not gently, no pretense at a tender lover's touch but rather fierceness, her teeth at his throat, scraping the skin. He reaches up, his hands brushing her waist, and her hand closes around his arm. "Stay," she says against his pulse, her tone sharp, as though she's addressing new recruits in combat -- or one of the infantry's mastiffs. Gabranth tenses, feels himself baring his teeth instinctively.

Drace pulls back. "The game does not suit you?"

Gabranth looks her in the eyes, but he does not move. "You would teach me to accept the role I've been given?"

"I would show you the difference it makes, when your loyalty and obedience are appreciated." Her hand clenches in his hair, repeatedly, rhythmically, the ache just enough to wake his nerves, to make his senses feel sharp.

With anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But anyone else would not offer like this. "Show me, then," he says.

Heat sparks in Drace's eyes. "Good dog."

Gabranth's cheeks flush, the more so because his cock stirs at the possessive pride in her voice. He closes his eyes, because he has no answer to make.

Drace leans in again, her breath hot against his skin, and he needs no coaxing this time to bare his throat. She's leaving bruises, he's sure of it, but he doesn't care. Her hand leaves his hair, and he can feel her moving -- and then she draws back, and he feels something cool and smooth circle his throat.

Her belt, he sees when he opens his eyes, wrapped around his neck to act as collar and leash. He fights down the urge to snarl, to lash out; he's hard for this, whatever else he might feel. "What now?"

"Up," Drace says, and rises to her feet as he obeys. He stands a good handsbreadth taller than she, but she looks up at him with no hesitation at all. "Heel." She turns her back, and he follows one pace behind, so the belt remains drawn taut between them as she leads him from the Magisters' shared salon back to her private apartment.

The door closes behind them with a click, and Gabranth finds his heart is pounding, realizes he can feel his pulse where the leather of Drace's belt circles his throat. He watches her for some cue; this is her suggestion, her game, and he will play along for now.

She turns back to him. "You will not need to be leashed in here, will you?" Her fingers are cool, easing her belt loose again, and Gabranth tries to keep his face impassive when she removes it -- but he must reveal something, because she smiles. "Don't give me those puppy eyes. I'll find something for you, if you miss it so. But you'll find it easier to undress without this hindering you."

"Is that an order?" he asks, as Drace steps back. He reaches up to unlace his shirt.

"When I give you orders," she says, unbuttoning her cuffs, "you will not mistake them for anything else." But she pulls her shirt untucked, and then removes it, so he follows her lead, his boots by the door, his clothes folded and set aside. Muscle flexes in her back as she opens a drawer in her dresser, and when she turns back to him, his cock jumps at the sight of the heavy collar in her hands.

"I am not the first dog you've trained, then," Gabranth says. His throat feels dry, and the idea that she could have done this with other men both arouses him and makes him seethe with jealousy.

Drace shakes her head. "The first to walk on two legs," she says. "My family has always kept hounds, and I worked as a beastmaster when I first enlisted." Her fingers stroke the thick leather of the collar, and she looks him up and down. "Here, boy." She points to the floor at her feet. "Sit."

Gabranth kneels in front of her, and she holds his gaze until he looks down. It's an act of submission, and he should feel more anger, shouldn't he? He should resist, his pride rebelling at the idea -- Drace's fingertips stroke the line of his jaw, tilting his face up, and he feels the heavy leather of the collar wrap around his throat. She buckles it at his nape, and then her mouth is on his, claiming a rough and hungry kiss.

When she pulls away, he moves to follow, and her hand in his hair stops him. "Stay," she says, and when he makes himself stop -- with effort, when she is so close, her mouth lush and her breasts heavy and soft -- she releases him, strokes his cheek. "Good dog."

"You take well to the role," Gabranth breathes.

"I am not the only one," Drace says, her voice husky. She steps back, climbs up onto the bed. "Come here."

Gabranth rises, and follows her. The linens on her bed are crisp and fresh, as they always seem to be, and scented faintly with lavender and something more earthy, more bitter; he suspects valerian root, but has not dared ask. Whatever it is that gives her trouble sleeping, he will leave that question for some later time.

If he is to be her dog, tonight, then he will act the part. He crawls into bed with her, nuzzling at her throat, growling as he presses close. She twines her legs with his and he bucks against her, grinding his cock against her thigh.

Drace laughs, low and rich, pleased. "What a strong and handsome hound you are," she says, running her hands over his back, his sides. She traps one thigh between hers -- her grip vise-tight, such strength in it -- and rocks against him hard, so he can feel the prickle of coarse hair, the slickness as she grows wet for this. He whines.

"So strong and fierce," she says, "but how well trained?" Her hand closes on his shoulder, and he lets her push him onto his back. "Good boy." She reaches down, runs her hand over the flat of his stomach, takes hold of his cock.

"Ah," he says, "Drace," rocking into the touch -- she handles him the way she handles her weapons, confidently and with no hesitation.

"Down, boy," she says, the heel of her other hand pressing down against his hip. "Stay." She keeps stroking him, slow and steady, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has to obey, to hold still when he wants to thrust into her grip. "That's it," she says. She releases his cock, rises up on her knees. "Now." Her voice is stern, commanding; she licks her lips. "Hold."

Gabranth has never heard an order, not even in the most trying combat he's seen, that was more difficult to obey -- but he does his best, clenching his fists tight in the sheets and sucking in harsh ragged breaths as Drace leans down to take his cock in her mouth. The wetness, the warmth -- the knowledge that this is _Drace_, not some common tavern wench, kneeling for him. Her lips slide along his shaft, her tongue teasing at the crown, and his hips rebel -- he thrusts up toward her mouth, once --

And she pulls up, her expression just as commanding as it has ever been, though her lips are flushed and wet with spit. "Stay," she says. "I will not tell you again."

"Forgive me," he manages, and forces himself to relax as she takes him in again. Her mouth is so slick, so hot, and she leaves him with nothing to distract himself, nothing to feel save the maddening pleasure of her touch. "Drace," he says. His voice is ragged, pleading, raw with need. It's too much, more than he can bear, her mouth a luxury with just the hint of roughness beneath it as her teeth brush his shaft. "Please -- please, I --" and he's desperate for this, tossing his head, straining just to hold still, so that he has no restraint left to hold off, to delay this -- "Drace, gods --" but she doesn't stop, doesn't pull up or give him any orders, and he can't resist her, can't stand this, can't do anything but surrender and spill into her mouth.

She rises immediately, pinning him in one smooth motion, her hand closing hard on his shoulder, her mouth sealed to his. Gabranth opens his mouth reflexively, and Drace presses her tongue past his lips. His mouth fills with his own come, and Drace pulls up, her weight bearing him down.

"Bad dog," she says. Gabranth feels himself cringe. "I don't remember telling you to come."

He swallows. The taste is bitter. "Going to punish me, then?" he says. This is only a game. He could stop if she asked anything truly unpleasant.

Her lips curve. "Perhaps I should," she says. "More training is certainly in order." She reaches for his cock again, and he hisses, too sensitive -- but Drace is relentless, as merciless in bed as in battle, stroking him until he has no choice but to harden again for her. When he responds, recovering more quickly than he had thought he could, she takes a leather thong from her bedside and wraps it around the base of his cock, tying it snugly.

"You won't chance me losing control again, will you?" he says, and she smiles.

"What would you learn from that?" she asks. "Now." She hooks two fingers under his collar, pulls him up onto his hands and knees, and stretches out across the sheets herself, on her back, languid and elegant. She parts her thighs. "Down."

Gabranth licks his lips, crawls between her legs. Her curls are damp, clinging to her skin. He licks his way up the inside of her thigh, tasting sweat, leather, the first traces of sweet musk.

"Hold," Drace says, her voice throaty and low, when he is close enough to breathe in her scent. Gabranth holds still, looks up at her, meeting her eyes. She wants him, wants this, the craving plain in her eyes. He whines, through bared teeth, and she shivers. "Good boy," she whispers. "Release."

He growls, and lowers his head to taste her. She's slick, hot, her fluids rich on his tongue, and she moans as he laps at her. The muscles of her thighs are taut under his hands, and he licks her open carefully, finding the hard nub at the center of her folds, the spot that makes her arch and tremble. She reaches down, cards her hand through his hair as though she would hold him there, and then does not, but leaves him free -- so that she will know he obeys, he thinks, and growls against her flesh. He is rougher with her than he usually dares, lets his teeth scrape against her folds as he sucks on her clit, and she rewards him by shivering, keening, her breath harsh and loud in the stillness of the room, until she draws tight and her hips arch up off the bed and she sobs with release.

Gabranth pulls back, would rise, but that Drace's hand on his shoulder stills him. "Stay," she husks.

"I'm not forgiven yet?" he asks.

Drace laughs. "I'd not say it like that," she says. "You're talented, and I've not yet had my fill." She strokes his cheek, curls her fingers around the back of his neck possessively and pulls him back down. "Again."

Her clit is flushed and swollen, her fluids slicking her thighs as he bends his head again to lick at her. She's not yet recovered from her first climax, it seems, and it takes less time to coax her to her second -- though still time enough for his jaw to grow sore, for his cock to begin to ache for touch. He stays down, this time, until she's flinching back from his mouth with a hiss.

"Down, boy," Drace says, and there's warmth in her voice, almost laughter.

Gabranth licks her thigh, and sits back on his haunches with a whine.

"Time to reward you, my faithful hound?" Drace asks, and he finds himself returning her smile. She props herself up on her elbows, then rolls over, her weight on her knees and elbows, her back arched, her legs spread.

"Gods," Gabranth says. "You would have your hound mount you?"

She looks back over her shoulder, and smiles wolfishly. "What better reward?" she asks. "Come here."

He rises up on his knees, steadying himself with a hand curled around her hip, and leans forward, pressing his cock to the slickness of her cunt. She rocks back toward him as he presses in, and she's hot and so tight, he can't help the hungry sound he makes.

"Yes," Drace gasps, "yes -- ah, good dog."

Gabranth snarls, leans forward and he can just -- just barely, without slipping free -- manage to bite the nape of her neck, teeth scraping the flesh and finding no purchase. Her fingers claw at the sheets, and she growls back, the noise low and harsh enough for her, for this act, for the need and immediacy that has her reaching down now beneath her body -- her hand against her clit, pressure he can feel through the soft walls of her cunt when he thrusts forward.

"There," she says the third time he does that. " More right there . _Stay_."

"Here?" he asks, shortening his strokes so he barely pulls out, so that he meets the pressure of her hand more readily, and the ache at the base of his cock grows more insistent at each stroke -- but the leather thong stays him from his release, leaves him ever more frustrated, teeth bared and snarling as he strives this time to hold out until she's satisfied, until she's -- until she's climaxed once again, clenching down around him and shaking, her breath heaving and her head bowed. "Please," he says when she's done, "Drace --"

"Let me up," she says, rolling her shoulders, and he pulls back -- pulls out, and gods, the slickness -- so she can move. She collapses to the bed, rolls over to pull him down on top of her, and she reaches down, her hands pulling at the lacing, wrapping around his cock, and her sword-calluses against his shaft are just rough enough, and her fluids make him slide so easily as he bucks into her hand -- and she says, "So good, my hound, so obedient, so handsome -- now _come_," and it takes not even three more strokes before he follows that order as well, and it's that much more intense for the way she's made him wait.

"Drace," he realizes he's saying, his arms trembling from the effort of holding him up. "Drace, gods, Drace."

She cards the fingers of her free hand through his hair and scratches behind his ears until he cannot help but smile. "Have I taxed your obedience to its limits?"

"You have one more messy task for your hound, before his work is done?" Gabranth asks. He's fairly certain he knows where she leads.

"Is it too much to ask?" she says.

No, Gabranth realizes, right now it isn't. He slides down the bed, bends his head and licks her belly clean. It tastes bitter, heavy on his tongue, but somewhere he discovers that the anger has gone out of him and there's no shame in it.

And when he rises, Drace reaches for him, and pulls him into her arms for a kiss. Her fingers trace the line of the collar. "Shall I remove this, then?" she asks.

"For now," Gabranth says, and bows his head as she tugs the buckle undone. His throat feels strange, bared again. "But keep it close by."


End file.
